DISPATCH

The sun shone through October treetops. The air glistened. Mosquitoes squeeeeeed by ears. Central Park hummed low, rich with activity and greenery and soil and the poignant wait, wait, wait for Autumn to finally show to the happy party. Throughout, the Eastern grays worked the acorn mines. And our legion of Squirrel Sighters, equipped with clipboards and pencils and buttons and curiosity, observed and appreciated and recorded the ways of Sciurus carolinensis. The Central Park Squirrel Census was on. Some days, the cloud cover came, and with it the drizzle and occasional sprinkle that dampened eyelashes and shoes. Other days, the flinty breeze brought sharp snaps of chill (finally), so that we-all bundled in layers and beanies and huddled in the slanted light as we prepped for another morning or afternoon of wandering hectares in that Mother of Parks, searching for our gray and cinnamon and black and white quarry. Over 300 volunteers. 350 hectares of park space, each roamed and tallied at least twice. Over 3,000 sheets of paper records. Man, the sheer number of emails and texts. As well, the city was abuzz with the very idea of a “squirrel census.” We made cab drivers laugh. We wore our navy and yellow buttons on trains and in restaurants and got asked if we were the ones counting all the squirrels. As a matter of fact ... The mayor’s office tweeted us. The media cut in, demanding clarification (and also enjoying the excuse to hock a “nutty” pun). Has the world gone so rotten that the idea of a census of squirrels so stretches our collective credulity? Did we help people, in our own small way, believe in something again? Maybe? Here’s another question: Has “Why?” ever been asked more often in a shorter span of time? Very likely. But for the record, it was asked a lot here. As was, “What’s the point?” Do you mean, Of life itself? Some even thought the entire Census to be an elaborate hoax. But the joke is on those Squirrel Scrooges. Because it was, and is, real. Nearly every morning and afternoon during the Census — from the North Woods and Springbanks Arch, to Gothic Bridge and the Reservoir, to King Jagiello (yahg-YELL-o) and The Ramble and Strawberry Fields, to The Mall and the Dairy Center, to that one overlook of bedrock upon which everyone and their most distant cousins, it seemed, stood to snap a pic with the City As Backdrop, to all the bijou and vast natural and manmade theaters between, including the small islands and sweet meadows and smiling softball fields — the loyal and dedicated Sighters strode into the urban-green (soon enough tinged with inklings of gold and coral), and they tallied the squirrels. They also kept eyes peeled for hawks, and raccoons, and pigeons, and falcons, and owls, and yes the dogs, the dogs off their leashes until 9 a.m., as giddy as dogs can be, what a life what a life, look at me look at me squirrel squirrel squirrel look at me!, as well as a few cat appearances, prima donnas that they are, and the hardworking horses, and the marrying couples, and the arguing couples, and the runners and runners and more runners, and bird watchers (nerds!), and those tufted titmice (which are not mice), and little-brother chipmunks, and rather wild middle-schoolers, tbh. Etc. And the Sighters met other humans. People a lot like them. People different from them. Older. Younger. Some, like squirrels, a bit feral. Others, also like squirrels, rather refined. All of them, to our eyes, inquisitive explorers game for adventure. And they — we — all saw the park in a fresh way. We knew the answer; we understood the point. But back to those squirrels: If we may take a moment to project our own neuroses onto them: the eyes black and pleading (or perhaps defiantly indifferent); the tail in flagrant flirtation mode (or maybe like, “Leave. Now.”); and the forepaws, oh the little hands, seemingly tidying up pie crusts of leaves and dirt after burying a nut; or maybe one hand tucked into the breast, kindly awaiting an answer to some unknown query; or both hands clasped together, filled with motherly or fatherly worry. What do we NOT know? is the question that hits closer to home. A Sighter sang a song, a cappella, at The Explorers Club. Then another Sighter sang a song, a cappella, also at The Explorers Club. Yet another explained the kuk, quaa, and moan. Still another hopped a train from Lancaster, PA to take part in a single 2.5-hour counting session. A park chess player came up with a squirrel haiku, right there on the spot. Sighters brought, unsolicited, squirrel-themed gifts to counts. They brought squirrel stories. They brought that poet’s intrepid life-spirit and a “Finally, someone is doing this” attitude. Sparks flew. Numbers got exchanged. Photos got texted. Wow. So many stories like that. Big navy totes, stuffed with essentials, and yellow-navy flags got schlepped to and fro. Hectare by hectare, Mother Park and her Citizens fell under our gaze. Until, at last, two weeks after it began, the final hectare’s squirrels got totally tallied (6G, afternoon count, four squirrels). The gentleman who committed the put-a-stamp-on-it act was soon-after serenaded by Sighter compatriots with a robust “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” and handed a favorite beverage. It all began with a Conch Blow at Mineral Springs. Sighters and Friends: Know here and now, you are all jolly good people. You helped accomplish something that had never before been done. You gave New York City something wholly original. Your names, all of them, are listed below in the spirit of sheer awe we feel at your work and generosity. Proof: There are still so many good things in this world. Now, we sit with our data stacks. We work in the glow of spreadsheets and documents. We sift for patterns and stories. We plot LON/LAT. We take objective viewpoints for scientific purposes. We also let our imaginations run fast — real fast, like, like, like, let’s say, like that squirrel we saw on Frisbee Hill, making a break across the open grass for a tree 30 meters away, as a loose dog won the angle and closed in on him. It was a happy ending, at least for the squirrel. But boy, they both ran fast! Anyway. Eastern grays do not hibernate. Neither do we. As the light dissipates and the air frosts, we will go quiet in our nest of work. As we do, know that we are thinking of you. From our vantage at Squirrel Census HQ down South, it hurts a little to muse about Mother Park, her city, and its valiant people; to feel the far-off vibrato communicating the hard truth that we are missing something, everything, by not being there. But a spring awakening is around the corner. And with the pink and white and yellow and red and even-especially the hot green buds, we too will emerge with our Central Park Squirrel Census Report, as well as a map of Mother Park that will knock your knickerbockers clean off. It will be the sum of all of our efforts. You will receive proper invitations to the festivities. We do it for you. We do it for the city. We do it for the squirrels. We do it because. Because it makes us happy. Until our next rendezvous, you have in our place undying gratitude and friendship. The Squirrel Census Team remains uncommonly yours and Ever True —